


Bored

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Someone's bored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rain has driven Sherlock and John inside for the day. As a result, someone's bored and pouty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bored

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to [Roane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane), both for beta-ing this, my first fanfiction effort, and for making me feel so welcome in the Johnlock fandom. That said, any errors/mistakes/etc. are mine.

Bored.

He … was … bored.

The grayness in the flat was pushing just past the edge of oppressive, thanks to weather that was streaming its bleakness through the living room windows. It might have been different had it been an actual downpour releasing its fury on Baker Street and the rest of London, but it wasn’t. It was just gray, a solid gunmetal gray that promised a storm but only allowed drizzle.

John wrapped his left hand around his now-empty (if tea-stained) mug as he used the fingers of his right hand to tap out an antsy rhythm on the arm of his chair. He jerked to standing and strode purposefully to the kitchen before depositing the mug in the sink. He found the edge of the counter with his hands and leaned into them, allowing his arms to take his weight for a moment before he turned, rested his back against the same spot and let out an audible sigh.

“John, I know, remember,” Sherlock said from the kitchen table, barely glancing up from the microscope that seemed to John to be doing a fine job of keeping his flatmate from boredom. “I can identify your moods even when you’re trying to hide them. I certainly don’t need a half-dozen painfully obvious hints thrown my way to identify your boredom.

“However, it is rather distracting me from my work. Read a book or something.”

The dismissive wave of his hand didn’t actually happen, but it was clear in Sherlock’s voice.

“I don’t want to read,” John said, only slightly wincing at the pout he heard in his own voice as he returned to his chair with an uncharacteristic flop. “You told me the ending to the last book I was really interested in finishing, and its replacement hasn’t been very good so far. I’m not in the mood for sitting right now, but who would choose to go for a walk in that?” He made a half-hearted sweep of his hand toward the source of the grayness before letting his arm rejoin the rest of his body in its flop.

Sherlock sighed. “Surely you can find something to do,” he said, irritation creeping none too subtly into his voice.

“Surely I can’t or I would have by now,” John retorted with just as much irritation. “Considering how often I come up with a plan to ease your boredom, maybe you should come up with something for mine just this once.”

Sherlock stilled at his microscope. He was working and – for once – wasn’t bored. John knew he wasn’t, because John definitely would have known if he were.

“My genius aside, you’ve said you don’t want to sit and you don’t want to walk. That rules out several activities pretty quickly,” he said. “Maybe you could make some scones to go with the tea? I even promise to eat one if making them keeps you sufficiently distracted.”

“You would eat, just to entertain me?” John darted an incredulous look toward Sherlock. He was tempted to take his rail-thin flatmate up on the offer, if only for that promise. His boredom had slipped past the level of easy fix, though, and he couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the dirty dishes and dusting of flour that he would have to deal with afterward. After a moment’s consideration, he ruled out the possibility.

“No, no scones today, though I’ll keep your promise to eat for the next time I do decide to bake,” he said, letting his head fall back against the chair as he stared at the ceiling. Maybe tracing the few fine cracks that had developed in the ceiling over the flat’s many years would occupy him for a few minutes. Hell, he’d take a few seconds at this point.

By the time Sherlock finally finished working with the slide that had held his attention for the past half-hour, John was beyond bored and scarcely glanced across the room when Sherlock straightened from his perch over the microscope and subtly flexed his back to work the kinks from his muscles.

Even that half-hearted glance seemed to take too much effort and John let his head fall back and tilt toward the ceiling again, closing his eyes as if he just couldn’t take seeing the apartment’s grayness for one more second. He didn’t hear Sherlock’s approach.

John told himself that lack of warning was at the root of his reaction when the quiet rumble landed in his ear.

“Perhaps I could ease your boredom.”

John’s eyes flew open, even as he froze in place. Fresh from the blackness that was the only thing visible behind his closed eyelids, John found himself staring into translucent gray eyes a few shades removed from the grayness in the flat and outside. Just inches away from his own, however, John found nothing boring in their grayness. He struggled for a moment to find his voice, also struggling to classify the tightening of his jeans as a typical startle response.

“Wh- what?” He winced as his voice broke, knowing it betrayed his visceral reaction to Sherlock’s voice.

Sherlock held John’s gaze for a moment before slowly and deliberately letting his head drop to John’s ear. His voice lowered a notch and his breath whispered across John’s skin as he repeated the words, slowly, clearly.

“Perhaps I could ease your boredom.”

“Wh- what did you have in mind?” John stammered a bit to get the question out, body still frozen in place. (Well, mostly frozen. A few parts, including the pulse thrumming in his exposed neck and, well, the parts covered by those suddenly too-constricting jeans, just refused to freeze.)

John’s eyes widened before fluttering closed as Sherlock dipped his head and let his lips brush that pulse point in his neck.

The heat that accompanied those lips had an immediate thawing effect on John’s frozen body, and he pushed his neck – solid, dependable but never before particularly noteworthy – upward to maximize its contact with and access to those lips. It was, so far, the only point of contact between John and Sherlock’s bodies, and it suddenly seemed imperative to John that there be more.

John’s thrust – more of a spasm, really – had the desired effect and the graze of lips became a proper kiss at the edge of John’s shirt collar. Sherlock’s long fingers rested gracefully on the other side of John’s throat, the touch searing his skin as fingers pressed gently into flexed tendons before starting a slow trail downward.

Sherlock’s lips – Christ, they were amazing against John’s skin – headed upward as just the faintest tip of his tongue traced the offered curve of neck to John’s jaw. John reached one hand up to grasp at Sherlock’s head just as Sherlock’s lips found his and one of Sherlock’s fingers simultaneously popped the top fastened button on John’s shirt.

“Wait.”

John jerked away from Sherlock’s touch, lurching out of the chair so suddenly that Sherlock was still leaning over its back when John managed to focus from his new position a few steps away. Sherlock straightened, his eyes flashing pewter before a more neutral expression covered his face. He said nothing, merely using one thumb to rub slowly at the dampness at one corner of his mouth while waiting for John to speak.

It took John about 10 seconds – it felt like forever – to calm his breathing to a point where he could speak; his mental attempts to ease the cramped quarters in his jeans were abandoned as useless. It took him another 10 seconds to figure out what came after “wait”, because, honestly, he wasn’t too crazy about the whole “wait” idea. Still, this was huge and he wasn’t quite crazy enough for “wait” not to be necessary; he couldn’t afford for any of whatever this was to be a game.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” John tried to keep his voice steady and calm, tried to avoid overreacting, in case kissing him was somehow just Sherlock’s twisted idea of a joke.

“I thought you knew, John,” Sherlock said, his voice steadier – deeper – than John had managed. “It’s called a kiss.”

“Very funny,” John said, using a tone that clearly said it wasn’t. “I know it’s called a kiss, Sherlock. My question, more precisely, is why were you kissing me?”

“You said you were bored; I finished my work for the moment and thought kissing might ease your boredom. Did I get something wrong? Was it boring?”

John started to respond, thought better of it, considered a different response, dismissed it and went back to his first reaction.

“So, you kissed me as a cure for boredom? That’s just great. And I thought your offer to entertain me by eating a meal was generous.” John, who hadn’t been quite sure what to do with his hands since he no longer was within grabbing distance of Sherlock, finally settled them a bit by crossing his arms. He expelled a deep breath and met Sherlock’s gaze.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock said, using his best I’m-being-perfectly-reasonable-and-you-just-don’t-understand tone of voice. “My offer to eat was generous, and I do believe my latest suggested cure for boredom to be an effective one. You no longer seem at all bored.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just kiss someone without thinking of the consequences,” John said. “It’s not like playing a board game. Kissing changes things.”

“Yes, John. I am aware,” Sherlock said. “In this case, however, I think the thing that would change would be your level of boredom. And you did seem to want that to change.”

“That’s not a good reason for kissing, though,” John said, hands falling to his sides and flexing as he struggled to remain calm.

“Are you bored now?” The question from Sherlock came with a raised eyebrow that dared John to say “yes”.

“No,” John said. He wouldn’t give Sherlock the satisfaction of catching him in a lie. What good would it do, anyway, when his genius flatmate already knew the truth? “No, I’m no longer bored. But boredom passes. Kissing, well, it tends to stay with a person for a while.”

“I don’t think I would find that objectionable,” Sherlock said. “Unless I missed something – and I didn’t this time – you don’t either.”

John pressed his lips together into a flat line. Could Sherlock really be saying what it sounded like he was saying? He raised his eyes once again to meet Sherlock’s, finding in them a flint-gray spark that promised to fuel an inferno. It gave John hope and a bit of courage, yet he remained cautious.

“Can you promise me that kissing won’t change anything? That we will still be friends and flatmates? I don’t, I don’t want to give up what we have,” John said, quietly but firmly.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock’s words came out on a breath as his long legs closed the gap between them. “Of course I can’t promise that nothing will change. Kissing, if done properly, will change everything. And, I assure you, I intend to do it properly. I just don’t intend to give you any reason to regret it.”

Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John, tugging their bodies together as his head descended and his lips claimed John’s in their second kiss. John didn’t resist this time, bringing one hand up to nestle in Sherlock’s hair and the other to rest at the base of Sherlock’s spine.

John opened his mouth beneath the gentle pressure of the kiss, allowing Sherlock’s tongue to slide past his teeth and caress his tongue. He tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and at his back, deepening the kiss and pressing their bodies closer together.

With John’s hands and both men’s lips now ensuring the proximity of their bodies, John felt an involuntary shiver run along his spine as Sherlock loosened his grip to drag his fingertips along John’s rib cage to the front of his shirt – John sent up a silent thanks to whatever god had kept him from donning a jumper that morning – and continued where he had left off in popping open buttons. John only realized that Sherlock had dealt with all the buttons above John’s waistband when he felt Sherlock snake one hand inside the shirt, nudging it open slightly and running warm fingers down his pectoral and abdominal muscles. He felt Sherlock’s second hand join the first under the fabric before both slowly made their way back up past John’s collar bone, splaying out across his shoulders and pushing the shirt off in the process.

A groan rose in John’s chest as he felt Sherlock’s lips leave his own and trail down his jaw to his neck. His brain was still processing the sensation of simply holding Sherlock when he felt Sherlock’s mouth on the mottled, scarred skin of his shoulder. It had never before crossed his mind that his scar could be an erogenous zone or that anyone would ever want to focus on it so intently, but the gentle flick of Sherlock’s tongue at the puckered edges of the scar made John inhale sharply.

Sherlock lifted his head and raised his eyes to John’s. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No … no,” John stammered, his voice going hazy with desire. “It felt … good. Fine. Better than fine.”

“Good,” Sherlock murmured, dipping his head back to John’s shoulder. Still reeling in the sensation of those plush lips on the tender skin at his shoulder, it took John a second to realize that Sherlock’s hands had fallen to John’s waist and were tugging at his belt.

John’s thought processes were skittering to a halt, morphing into a desire-laden puddle centered just below his belt and behind two – too many – layers of fabric. He felt himself straining at those layers before Sherlock finished unfastening the belt and let one hand drop lower, neatly trimmed fingernails scraping gently but firmly at the pulsing hardness within.

“I, I thought … we … were … just kissing,” John managed to pant into Sherlock’s shoulder, regretting it immediately as Sherlock stilled his hand.

“Is that what you want? Just kissing?” Sherlock responded, forming the words around continued brushes of his lips along John’s skin.

“Oh, God, no,” John said, thrusting his hips against Sherlock’s thigh to make up for the loss of Sherlock’s hand on his cock. “Just, just saying …”

Sherlock slid one graceful hand back across John’s crotch, squeezing gently before sliding down the zipper on John’s jeans and reaching inside his pants to wrap long fingers around John’s penis.

Sherlock used his other hand to steady John as John’s knees went slightly wobbly at the contact, one still-functioning brain cell relaying to John the message that Sherlock remained fully clothed. His hands jerked at the thought before he hastily untangled his fingers from Sherlock’s curls and from his waist to scrabble at Sherlock’s shirt, his brain struggling to function on many levels yet still well aware of where Sherlock’s dominant hand was and what it was doing to his body.

“Too many clothes,” John mumbled across a pale, flawless neck before his lips renewed contact with Sherlock’s. “I want you … out … of these.”

The latter words fell from John’s lips into Sherlock’s mouth, John unwilling to lose contact long enough to say more. He managed to work his hands under Sherlock’s shirttail, fingers tingling at the increase in skin-to-skin contact. He pushed the fabric upward until Sherlock pulled away and treated the shirt like a pullover, ignoring the undoing of buttons in favor of yanking it over his head in one swift movement.

John encircled Sherlock in his arms, pressing his hands into Sherlock’s back. The move drove their bare chests together and increased the contact along the length of their bodies. Their bodies together like that – even still half-clothed – felt incredible, better than John had ever dreamed and, yes, he most definitely had dreamed about this.

“Bedroom,” Sherlock said, sounding dazed as John found Sherlock’s crotch with one hand and started working at his trousers’ zipper. “Now.”

John was reluctant to lose contact with Sherlock’s long, lean body for any length of time, but he couldn’t resist the husky timbre that testified to Sherlock’s state of arousal. He pulled back just enough for Sherlock to move, stumbling slightly as he felt long fingers shift to grasp his own and tug him toward the bedroom.

John, stunned and more than a bit punch-drunk with arousal, barely noted his surroundings as he trailed down the hall after Sherlock, though he did note that the flat was still gray.

The stifling gunmetal tone, however, had given way to a mercury hue, a quicksilver that mirrored Sherlock’s heated gaze and danced with promise.

The men reached the bedroom and Sherlock shut the door behind them before carefully pushing John down to sit on the bed.

John shifted a bit to get more comfortable and a mental note flashed at the edges of his mind before his thought processes were rerouted by Sherlock joining him on the bed.

That mental note?

He definitely wasn’t bored.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure why, but [Mazarin221b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mazarin221b/pseuds/mazarin221b/works?fandom_id=133185)'s designating Sherlock as "Mercury" in ["Across the Sky"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/438495/chapters/747115) made me melt more than a little bit. Hence, the quicksilver imagery at the end of this.


End file.
